


even in the dust we shine

by bellamythology (onemanbellarmy)



Series: 'Tis the Season for Bellarke [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blake siblings banter, Established Relationship, F/M, finals week fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemanbellarmy/pseuds/bellamythology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s sitting in the corner, back against an infrequently-accessed bookcase. Her shiny — not new, but well-used and well-cared for — PC laptop is open on her lap. With her jaw set and her eyes narrowed, she’s the very picture of a diligent student. (Focus level: finals week.)</p><p>It would be <em>such</em> a shame if something were to disrupt her studies.</p><p>{ or, the one where they flirt in the library during finals week }</p>
            </blockquote>





	even in the dust we shine

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fire N Gold" by Bea Miller. Wrote this to celebrate the end of finals and the start of winter break. I know I'm late to the holiday party, but I come bearing fluff fic.

Finals week always leads to an increase in student patronage in the Ark High School Library, and this influx of people often means there are interesting things to see. Now, for instance:

A boy — senior, judging from his height and the hint of stubble — sitting alone in one of the chairs near the shelves. Glasses sliding down his nose, eyes drifting shut as he flips through relevant scientific articles on Darwinist theory. (Final lab reports are the worst thing he has ever had the displeasure of being assigned.) Anyone could tell you he’d rather be doing anything else — specifically, his friends would note, something to do with Roman history or mythology, though at this point he’s not picky.  But all the colleges he’s thought about want several years of science classes, and biology would be a plus for the programs he’s looking at.

A brunette girl — two or three years younger than he — smacks the back of his head with her copy of _The Odyssey_ (requisite freshman English reading)  as she passes his chair. He catches the book in one hand automatically, twisting his entire upper body to grin at her. She shakes her head in fond amusement, sliding his glasses back into place with the gentle ease of familiarity. “I’m good to go, Bell.”

He lets her pull the book from his grip. “You couldn’t have just texted?”

A corner of her mouth curls up in a smirk that he knows all too well. (He used to practice it in the mirror, back in his awkward trying-too-hard-to-be-smooth middle school days.) “What would be the fun in that?”

He shoves her, grinning. “Be there in a few.”

Suddenly her gaze shifts across the room, then back to him. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“What?” His suspicions are clearly raised by her mischievous grin, one that promises trouble.

Smirking wider, she pats his shoulder. “I think Raven’s still in the robotics room; Wick probably is too. Or I can just wait for Lincoln to give me a ride after basketball practice gets out. _Anyway,_ I’ll see you at home, big brother.” And she’s gone, before he can decide whether to protest or ask what the hell she’s talking about now.

And anyway, his question is answered when blond hair flashes across his peripheral sight. _Of course._

She’s sitting in the corner, back against an infrequently-accessed bookcase. Her shiny — not new, but well-used and well-cared for — PC laptop is open on her lap. (“Why would I want a Mac when I grew up using Windows? Besides, my dad’s an engineer; this used to be his, and it still works fine.”) With her jaw set and her eyes narrowed, she’s the very picture of a diligent student. (Focus level: finals week.)

It would be _such_ a shame if something were to disrupt her studies.

Putting on a variation of the smirk his sister left with, Bellamy closes his binder and slips off his glasses, tucking them into their case and the case into his backpack. (No need to give her extra ammunition; she always manages to find more than enough on her own.) Shouldering his bag, he approaches to hover over her. “Hey, princess. Working hard or hardly working?”

She doesn’t even deign to look up. “Still sticking with clichés, Blake? Yet another example of why I scored higher on that last Shakespeare essay.”

“Please, that was all favoritism. My essay was better and you know it and Woods knows it. But just because you're GSA president and she's the teacher advisor—”

Clarke wrinkles her nose at this, closes her laptop and glances around quickly to discover that the library is still crowded, but no one’s paying them any attention. That, as much as his raised-eyebrow challenge, lowers her inhibitions enough to hook a leg around his ankles and yank. Not quite hard enough to trap him — from her seated position she can’t muster that much momentum — but enough to make him stumble and decide to sit down next to her before someone gets hurt.

“She does seem to have it out for you, actually,” she says conversationally, lowering her voice and speaking amiably, as though she hadn’t just tried to trip him. “I mean, I checked over your essay myself; it was nearly as good as mine.” She grins, teasing, and rests her head against his shoulder as he drapes his arm across hers.

“Just nearly, huh?” He leans over enough to rest his cheek against her hair. Its soft, familiar texture calms the pounding of his heart that started the second he spotted her.

“Yup. Try all you like, Bellamy, but you’ll never be able to get to my level.” There is comfortable, companionable silence before she reluctantly asks whether he needs to get going, if Octavia is waiting for him.

“Nah, she said she’d find a ride.” He scowls, and she laughs softly.

“I keep telling you, Lincoln’s nice. He doesn’t look it, I know, but he’s really a big teddy bear.”

“Sure he is.” A sigh. “In any case, I’m all yours for the afternoon. If you’ll have me. What do you feel like doing?”

She wrinkles up her nose again, though with considerable less disgust than previously. “I’m spending Christmas week at Dad’s — it was always his holiday, more than Mom’s; she gets me for New Year’s and her awful networking parties — so I’ve got to pack sometime soon. Got two more finals tomorrow, and I wanted to get some college apps stuff out of the way so I’m free for whatever he’s got planned.” A soft, loyally affectionate smile plays at the corner of her lips now. “You could come over and hang out today. My mom’s out till late, and I always seem to be more productive when you’re around. Plus I wanted to get your thoughts on some of my essays.” She sees his smirk without turning and rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he protests, still smirking. “Mind taking a look at mine, then?”

“Sure, we’ll trade.” She reopens her laptop and pulls up a folder titled “College Applications,” then a subfolder titled “Essays.” He pulls out his own laptop — slightly beat-up and secondhand as well, but no less loved — and clicks on the “College Crap” folder on his desktop. They trade and read in silence, occasionally stopping to make notes or ask clarifying questions.

Finally Cage Wallace — the ill-tempered collegiate son of the head librarian, who frequently tags along with his father for no reason that anyone can discern — snarls that they’re closing, so they gather up their belongings and head out, hands finding each other’s instinctively.

Outside, it’s already grown dark though it’s only seven.

“I should get home,” Bellamy says reluctantly, not letting go of her hand.

Clarke squeezes his hand and grins. “I’m sure Mom’s ready to lecture me about my GPA and how it’s barely good enough for Harvard. Thank God they restrict access to the online gradebook over winter break.” Finally she takes a step back, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. “I’ll text you.”

“All right. See you around, princess.”

“Happy holidays, Bell.” She steps back in to hug him briefly but tightly, and he drops a kiss on her hair.

* * *

  


Octavia’s standing in the parking lot, having seen everything. She doesn’t shut up about it all the way home; Bellamy just groans, shaking his head despite his lingering smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Cry with me on [Tumblr](http://befreckledrebelking.tumblr.com)!


End file.
